A Billionaire for Christmas

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, you with your seductive tattoos and your beautiful, dark eyes.”

She laughed. “You betcha, you with your hot, shredded abs and your muscular arms.”

She had followed his lead. Nice. “Maybe I should have you organize my life for me.”

Her eyes lit up. “Give me an hour, a spreadsheet, and a bottle of tequila, and we’ll hash out a life plan for you that you won’t want to deviate from.”

“I don’t think we’d need to drink a bottle of tequila to do that.”

“The tequila isn’t for you, buddy. It’s payment. You don’t think I would do that for free, do you? I’ll need good tequila, too. Top shelf stuff.”

“Oh, as payment. I would have thought that bossing people around would be your idea of fun.”

“Ugh, I boss people around all day at work. I demand that my patients stop eating deep-fried sticks of butter smothered in mayonnaise. I design treatment regimens for the nurses and PAs to follow. I teach the poopy-butt, short-coated medical students which end of the needle to stick patient with. Hint: Stick them with the pointy end. They pay me to boss everyone around. You should pay me to boss you around, too.”

He laughed. “Sounds good. Plan my life. The next time the band tours Mexico, I’ll ship you a bottle of the finest, artesan tequila.”

“Okay, deal. What do you want to do with your life?”

“That’s what you’re going to tell me.”

“Jesus Christ on a cracker, Peyton. You’ve got to give me something to start with. What did you want to be before you joined Killer Valentine?”

Peyton paused, thinking back those five months. “I wanted to be a classical pianist, I think.”

Raji sat up, pulling the white sheet around herself and over one shoulder like a superhero’s cape. “You think? You don’t know?”

That was a tough question. “When did you decide you wanted to be a heart surgeon?”

Raji shrugged, and the sheets slithered down her smooth shoulder to her arm. “I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.”

“You didn’t want to be a ballerina or an astronaut?”

“Those are childish ambitions. I’ve always wanted a high-power, high-level surgical career.”

Which was specific and very un-childish. “And how did you know to want to do that?”

She shrugged. “My father is a psychiatrist. He always told me to go into hard medicine, not squishy science. Not that he was qualified to give anyone advice about how to live your fucking life.”

Interesting. “So, your parents told you to be a doctor.”

She frowned again. Peyton liked the way her pretty little nose wrinkled. “Sort of. I picked the cardiothoracic specialty.”

“The what?” he laughed. “Sounds like you teach exercise classes.”

“Cardiothoracic! The cardio part means the heart, and the thoracic part means the thorax, the rest of the chest including the lungs.”

“I’m just a musician. I don’t even know if I could pronounce that.” He smiled at her, wide enough that he knew the dimple on his left cheek would dent in.

She giggled. “Oh, my God, you’re cute. Cardio, like exercise. Thor, like that hot blond guy in the movie. Acic, like if you eat something that tastes like buttcrack. Ass! Ick!”

“All right. Cardio. Thor. Ass! Ick!” he half-shouted, waving his hands. “Was that right?”

She laughed out loud at him. Her throaty, jubilant laugh enticed him even more. “Close enough. We’ll have to work on it.”

“Why did you choose such an unpronounceable specialty?”

“Because it was the hardest of the hard sciences, I guess.”

“And I chose piano performance at Juilliard, the most elite of the classical music conservatories. I finished my Master’s in June, just weeks before I joined KV.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. So, you have a Master’s degree. That opens up some interesting paths you could take. Damn, I wish I had my computer and a nice, blank spreadsheet right now. What is your degree in? How long does it take to get a Master’s degree in music?”

“Piano performance, minors in composition and voice. One year past one’s bachelor’s degree.”

She rolled away from him a little. “Wait, you just finished your bachelor’s one year ago? You’re how old?”

“I’m twenty-three.”

Her dark eyes widened a little. “Oh. Huh.”

One of her legs reached for the edge of the bed.

Peyton raised one eyebrow at her. “Is that a problem?”

“Uh, no?” She stared at the ceiling. “I mean, you fuck like you’re older.”

He cracked up. “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“Oh, don’t be. It means better. Longer, you know, stamina-wise. Good technique. Gives a damn about the woman. That sort of thing.”

“Have you had a lot of older lovers?” He laughed a little, letting the smile sparkle at her. He knew what he was doing, being charming, being sexy. He’d had a lot of practice.

“Not a lot. Just, you know, the normal amount. Since I’ve done my bachelor’s and four years of medical school and three years into my residency.” She said the next part slowly, enunciating clearly. “Because I’m twenty-nine.”